"The story behind the picture of the Convair 880 on takeoff attests to one of the most unforgettable moments of my life.
For two years prior to the airplane’s retirement, I photographed the machine from a crew member’s viewpoint.
I had gotten plenty of decent shots but still needed something unique that would leave a lasting memory—Thus, the idea of a head-on image was born.
We had four early-morning 880 departures out of our Houston base during the window of opportunity, when the sun’s angle would be just right.
With permission from our chief pilot and the FAA, another second officer, Tom LeBoutillier, and I showed up at the airport one morning to discuss our plan with all four captains who would be departing at the critical hour.
Tom would take color photographs, and I, black-and-white. Each captain promised to hold his climb out down for the picture.
Loaded with more enthusiasm than good sense, we managed to get the FAA to drive us to the end of the runway in a government car.
The guy behind the wheel was anything but friendly and seemed intent on being as uncooperative as possible. We walked the last hundred yards to the easternmost end of the east-west runway.
Feeling decidedly uncomfortable on an active runway without the attachment of an airplane, I watched the first Convair taxi into position almost two miles away.
The signature black exhaust confirmed that he was rolling. Closer and closer it came, then ... liftoff. He passed well overhead; far too high for the shot we needed. The same was true for the next three.
I knew each captain was doing his best to help in the effort, but when all my prints were developed that night, I had nothing but pictures of 880 underbellies. We’d have to try again the next day.
With several 8x10s as illustrations, we showed the next morning’s crews what didn’t work the day before. They were all eager to help.
Just before leaving operations with the same FAA guy, one of the captains, John Steiger, approached with a grin on his face. “So you need a little help, huh?” His was to be the third of four departures.
Knowing he would rise to the occasion, I replied that we did. “I’ll take care of it,” he promised. I wondered about the sly smile on his face as he walked away.
The first two takeoffs were as unproductive as those of the previous day. Then John’s airplane took the runway, blackening the air behind him as he brought the power up. There was slow movement at first, then the speed became noticeable. Liftoff. He kept the machine near the ground, but the gear remained extended.
“C’mon, c’mon, John,” I urged aloud, “get the gear up!” Closer and closer he loomed. Finally, the wheels began to retract. My initial elation changed to something more visceral when facing the approaching airliner with four exhaust plumes blowing hard against the concrete.
The airplane filled the frame as I released the shutter a final time. In horror, I threw two cameras over my head and went for the dirt, certain there was no way out of our foolish predicament.
As soon as he boomed by, I grabbed one of the cameras and cranked off a few more frames from the prone position, then glanced at the FAA guy. He had come to life and was bent over with laughter.
Several years after that memorable morning, I was flying copilot for Steiger on a Lockheed 1011. Sitting comfortably at altitude, he turned to me. “Do you remember that picture we did of the 880?”
“How could I ever forget it, John?”
“I was wondering if you’d like to re-create it with the 1011?”
“Go to hell!”
Working at my new position as chief pilot in Houston one afternoon in 1988, a mechanic friend walked in to talk about the large 880 picture hanging behind my desk.
“Do you know where that airplane is now?” he asked.
“Actually, I thought it had been scrapped.”
“It never was.” he said. “Elvis Presley bought that very ship, and it’s now on display in Graceland.”
Signed, Larry Pullen
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